


The Raven

by shadowofrazia



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Gen, Post 5X13, the raven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofrazia/pseuds/shadowofrazia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin wanted to forget Camelot. He wanted to forget it all. But everything was a reminder, even the raven perched above his chamber door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Raven

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt #:** 32  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Merlin
> 
> Huge thank you to M for betaing this for me!

Merlin pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. It was late, too late, and if he listened, Merlin could hear the sound of the bitter wind blowing outside his window.

He’d been sitting at his desk for hours, reading a book old enough that the ink had nearly faded from the page. Merlin’s eye’s burned from the strain he’d put on them that night. Still, the lamps in here were far better than the candles in Camelot had—

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Merlin shook his head, forcing away the memories and the names. He turned to face the door, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as a shiver ran through him. Shaking his head again, Merlin laughed.

“It’s only a visitor,” he said quietly to himself, turning back to his book. “Nothing more.”

He shifted in his uncomfortable chair, pulling at the collar of his shirt. Everything now was so stiff, and Merlin almost longed for the days of tunics and his leather boots. He unbuttoned his collar and leaned back in his chair. The room was cold, and the fire was dying.

If Merlin were still using his magic, it’d be no problem to relight the flames. But he hadn’t used his magic in years, and that wasn’t about to change tonight.

Merlin allowed his eyes to drift shut, and Camlann burned behind them. Like it was yesterday, Merlin could see it all: Morgana dying on Excalibur’s blade, Mordred thrusting that terrible blade into Arthur’s side… Arthur’s eyes closing on Avalon’s shore…

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Camlann disappeared as Merlin opened his eyes. The room had darkened even further, and Merlin stood, refastening his collar.

“It’s only a visitor,” he repeated. Approaching the door, he called, “Excuse me, but it’s quite late. I was working and—” Merlin opened the door and saw only darkness.

As he stared into the night, he could almost hear Arthur’s voice on the wind.

“Arthur?” Merlin wished he could stop himself hoping.

“Ridiculous!” he growled a moment later, slamming the door. Letting his head rest against the dark wood of the doorframe, Merlin closed his eyes and tried to get himself under control.

He had been doing so well.

By the time he lifted his head, the fire was nearly out. It cast a dim orange glow throughout the room, sending shadows into every corner, over every surface, and Merlin’s shadow loomed, tall and sharp and distorted, where it was cast onto the wall.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

The sound was louder that time and Merlin clenched his teeth. He would not turn. It was only his shutter, surely. He must not have latched it correctly. It must have come unsecured with the wind. It was only his imagination.

Hesitantly, Merlin crossed to the window. The curtains were drawn against the cold, and as Merlin pulled them back, he was reminded of Gwen’s skirts as they dragged against the stone floors of Camelot’s castle. Forcing himself to focus, Merlin pushed open the window.

The shutter was caught by the wind and, before Merlin could catch it, the shutter slammed against the outside of the house. As he leaned out into the night to reach it, Merlin felt something cuff the back of his head. Window and shutter forgotten, Merlin spun to face the other side of the room.

Perched upon the Hecate statue above the doorway was a bird. It was large, black, and gleaming. A raven, like the ones Morgana had been so fond of before…before. Merlin smiled sadly. And then he laughed.

“What is your name?” he asked jovially, stepping forward. He felt a bit ridiculous, speaking to a bird as if it was a person, but he couldn’t help himself. “Have you got a name, raven?”

There was a long moment of silence, filled only by the sound of the wind outside, before the raven opened its mouth and croaked, “Nevermore.”

Merlin blinked, surprised and a little bit wary—he’d been mistrusting of speaking animals after his experiences with Kilgharrah.

“Nevermore?” he repeated. “What sort of a name is that?”

The raven croaked the word again, and Merlin felt his mirth leave him.

“You’ll leave,” Merlin said to the bird as he returned to his desk. “Everyone leaves in the end. Well, everyone but me, I suppose.”

The raven was quiet and, slightly calmed, Merlin focused on his work. He wrote and, as more time passed, he let the raven drift from his mind.

“Nevermore.”

Merlin startled, upending his inkwell onto his desk. The ink was dark where it soaked into the wood, and Merlin couldn’t quite resist the urge to run his fingers through it. Then, he took a steadying breath and calmly set about refilling it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered, giving a small, nervous laugh, and trying to ignore the way his hands shook. “It’s probably the only thing the bloody bird knows how to say.”

He stood and spun his chair around to face the door. The raven stared down at him, eyes dark and gleaming in the dim glow of the fire’s embers.

“Did someone teach you to speak, bird?” Merlin asked. “They must have been terribly unhappy to teach you to say that.”

Merlin wondered if he should be afraid. Many people feared ravens, after all.

But many people feared death, as well, and Merlin hadn’t feared death for a very long time.

Leisurely, he leaned back in his chair. The raven watched, still and silent, even at the sound of Merlin’s voice. Merlin turned away, frowning.

Everything, even this _stupid bird_ , reminded him of Arthur. Sometimes, while walking, Merlin would think he’d heard Arthur’s voice. More than once, he’d mistaken young men hurrying past—so brilliant, so full of life—for the one man he’d waited for all these years.

Until he remembered the way Arthur had gone still in his arms all those years ago.

And then, just for a moment, Merlin thought he heard Arthur’s laugh, joyous and familiar. He thought he could smell Gwen’s perfume, or the soap Arthur used for his bath.

Merlin stood abruptly, pacing the floor. With shaking, ink-blackened fingers, Merlin once again undid his collar. He wanted to scream, to let his magic out, to do anything but remember. He wanted to forget Camelot and Arthur.

He wanted to forget his failure.

“Nevermore.”

“Where did you come from?” Merlin shouted at the raven. It rustled its feathers, but otherwise, didn’t react. “Have you been sent to torment me, you vile thing?”

Merlin turned away, running his hands through his hair and wincing as they came away coated in pomade. The raven cocked its head back and forth, completely unaffected by Merlin’s outburst.

Exhausted, Merlin collapsed heavily into his stiff chair. Resting his head in his hands, he focused on taking deep, careful breaths. “Will I ever know peace?” he murmured.

_Will he ever return?_

And, through Merlin prayed it wouldn’t, the raven peered at him and croaked another chilling, “Nevermore.”

“Leave,” said Merlin quietly, unsure if it was anger or despair that was coursing through him. “Leave!” he shouted, standing so quickly his chair toppled over behind him.

The raven didn’t move.

“Get out of here!” screamed Merlin, throat burning with the strain. He could feel the panic, the sadness, the _anger_ threatening to overwhelm him. He pulled at his hair and, without thinking, he grasped his glass.

The way it shattered against the wall was nearly enough to pull Merlin from his rage. Nearly.

He threw his inkwell and his notes and a decanter of expensive brandy. Sweeping his arms over the surface of the desk, Merlin knocked the remaining things to the floor. And when he turned, the raven simply stared.

Merlin leaned heavily against the desk. There was a chilling wind blowing through the room, though Merlin was sure he’d latched the window. The inkwell had shattered against the wall above the fireplace, and Merlin imagined the dark ink as dripping blood where it fell onto the mantle. He sank slowly to the floor, head held in his trembling hands, mind reeling with memories and regrets and failures.

And through it all, the raven did not stir. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own Merlin, which is owned by BBC, or The Raven, which was written by Edgar Allen Poe.


End file.
